It's all a matter of perspective!

Currently I am staying at this guest house in Yaounde. I stayed here my first several days in the country as well and then I remember thinking, “This is simple but adequate and clean.” Now seven weeks and many nights spent in small villages later, I marvel at the spaciousness, the immaculate floor, the concrete entrance, the nightstand and the hangers in the closet. I wish I could bottle this appreciation for the small things and take some out to sip on at home when I start to forget and become ungrateful- or maybe I could even hand it out as souvenirs!

The home stretch

I feel as if things are winding down. The last weeks have been full, but I finished up some major projects on my mental “to-do” list (a completely Western idea, by the way):

-Finished reading 1,500 pages of “academic literature” about Cameroon and literacy.
-Wrote an annotated bibliography on abovementioned pages.
-“I don finish dem Pidgin English lessons.”
-Finished up my hours of ethnographic research by learning to cook a couple of traditional Cameroonian dishes (stay tuned for personal invitations to experience these vicariously at my new apartment in Shipshewana, Indiana) and visiting a fon’s palace (A fon is an official whose jurisdiction encompasses many of the traditional practices in a village. This particular fon has 8 wives and 40 children who are referred to as queens and princes/princesses respectively).
-Traveled to two different literacy classes in the village.
-Hiked to a waterfall in the village (okay, so this wasn’t formally on the to-do list but it was beautiful)
-Scared the bejeebers out of a couple of dozen village people by waking them up with screams in the middle of the night (Also not on the to-do list- it turns out that the medication that I am taking to prevent malaria causes “mental disturbances”; so last week I woke myself up from a dream where I was screaming for help and realized that I was really screaming at the top of my lungs. Ugh! The good news is I have been sleeping much better since this incident.)
-Shopped for gifts for family and friends (if you have specific requests, speak now!)
-Spent my last evening in Bamenda with my Cameroonian family during which they prepared a special meal of fish, plantains, vegetable, sodas and sweets. The “festivities” lasted throughout the night for me as the fish bones and head that I crunched did not sit well with my stomach.
-Traveled back to the capital city (complicated by abovementioned stomach issues)

Next week’s to-do list:
-Finish final paper
-Enjoy the beach! (I got to know this delightful British woman who is traveling with me. We leave on Saturday for several days of sunshine before I fly out.)

All is well

Stay tuned for an update in a couple of days from the capital where connections are more "user-friendly."

Campfire riddles

A couple of weeks ago I moved in with a Cameroonian family in the city- I have actually only lived with them a couple of days since I have been traveling every week to different villages. The day after I moved in to their home, their father/grandfather died so lots of people came to visit for nearly two weeks of cooking/sewing/hosting/night vigils/funeral/celebration/headshaving/dancing/drums (all of which I experienced during the weekend that I was in town). Anyway, one night I am setting up a mattress on the floor so that someone else can have my bed and an aunt begins to protest that I should take the bed. At some point in the discussion she says, “But you are not used to sleeping on the floor.” So I tell her, “Oh yes, during holidays my family goes camping and we sleep on the ground for fun. Tonight I will pretend that I am camping.” Whether she was convinced or not, she chuckled and allowed me to sleep on the floor.

Last week I again pretended I was camping. I went to a more remote village in the northwest called Bamukumbit. Two single missionaries live there without running water, electricity or a toilet. The people cook all of their food over the open fire so in the evenings we would go and sit around a neighbor’s campfire and munch on grilled corn, plums, achoo or koki beans. One evening we started telling riddles to each other. In Bamukumbit each riddle begins in the same way:

Person 1 says, “I have a story.”

Person 2 responds, “The pig is hungry” (This is a literal translation but the idea is that you are eager to hear the story).

I will share some good ol’ Cameroonian riddles: (I have put the answers below so you can have a chance to guess):

1: I am walking down the road with three legs. I come into the house with two legs. What happened?

2: What is silent when alive but speaks when it is dead?

3: You are noisy on the way and silent coming back. Where have you gone?

4: What runs and runs and never stands still?

5: This is a bridge that you can’t see but others can. What is it?

6: Your mom tells you to collect an orange but it is floating in the middle of a deep river. You are unable to swim. What do you do?

Answers:

1: I left my walking stick at the door.

2: a leaf

3: You have gone to harvest palm oil in a calabash container. A calabash container reminds me of a hollow squash with a hole in the top used to pour the oil. When empty the calabash rattles and is used as a percussion instrument.

4: a river

5: your nose

6: Throw something at the monkey sitting in the tree above the river. He will want to mimic you so he will reach down and pick up the orange to throw it at you. Catch it and take it home to your mother.

Life as a porcelain vase

I have been spending time in different villages these last weeks and am leaving today for another small village. When I leave the city I am often moving from a minority of many to become a minority of one, visible in such a way that the entire village knows my comings and goings. This was best symbolized last week by a small child who lived nearby the home where I was staying. Every morning and afternoon when I was approaching he would yell to his friends, “The white man is coming!” Then he and his entourage would stop their play to watch me, responding to my greetings only with smiles and some giggles.

Don’t misunderstand- the people in Cameroon have welcomed me very warmly. In fact, I would liken their welcome to that of a porcelain vase sitting on the shelf among plastic cups. I have been served first at meals; people give up their beds so I will not have to sleep on the ground. People insist that I take their chairs so I will not sit on the floor. When I offer to help with dishes, the response is, “Your hands are too soft. Let us do them.” It is assumed that I cannot walk far without tiring; warm water awaits me in the bathroom so I can bathe every morning. I am given special greetings, special invitations and special introductions. I am fragile, delicate, handled with care, easily-breakable, something to be admired rather than actually used in everyday work.

I sometimes resent the treatment. I want to tell stories about hiking Pike’s Peak or running a marathon. I purposely walk places, look for opportunities to serve others and wash my own clothes. Yet at my best moments, I see their actions as simply a way to acknowledge the elephant in the middle of the room, a non-verbal affirmation of reality. When I “escape” on Sundays to eat chicken curry served on china at the International Hotel, I know that it is true- I am wealthy. When my whole body aches after bending over a basin to do my laundry, I am ready to acknowledge- I am not used to manual labor. When I am slipping around on muddy paths, I remember- I am privileged. So for better or for worse, I suspect I will continue to encounter the porcelain vase treatment, a fact I cannot change any more than the color of my skin.

Mud

Every place has some facet of life which helps you "build character." In Los Angeles, it was the traffic on the freeway and finding a parking space. In Indiana, I think it may be the bitter cold of winter. In Cameroon, it is rainy season and its accompanying mud. I have not mastered the art of arriving at your destination without mud splattered on your skirt and caked on your feet; in fact, right after a heavy rain it is all I can do to stay on my feet, much to the amusement of the Cameroonian observers. Ah well- a wise woman once said, "This too shall pass."